


A Throne of Nothing

by TwoHeadedDragon



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Canon Compliant, Finding sympathy for the unsympathetic, Post-Calamity Ganon, Pre-Breath of the Wild, Pre-Calamity (Legend of Zelda), he's probably still kind of a jerk though, just barely, losing everything changes your perspective, missing scenes?, pride goeth before a Calamity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoHeadedDragon/pseuds/TwoHeadedDragon
Summary: A century was a long time to be alone with one’s thoughts.  When the Calamity had erupted from beneath his feet, Rhoam had not had time for a single thought before he had died.  His destruction had been swift and absolute.As goes the king, so goes the kingdom, he reflected bitterly.I’m challenging myself to write POV for characters I don’t particularly like or understand. (Look out, Revali, I’m coming for you) Please let me know what you think!
Relationships: Guardians/Wrecking Everything, King Rhoam/Regret
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	A Throne of Nothing

A century was a long time to be alone with one’s thoughts. When the Calamity had erupted from beneath his feet, Rhoam had not had time for a single thought before he had died. His destruction had been swift and absolute. _As goes the king, so goes the kingdom_ , he reflected bitterly. He had been furious. With the Champions for failing, with the researchers who had not discovered this possibility for ruin, and most of all with _her._ His stubborn, willful, negligent daughter. The key to their salvation, refusing to turn in the lock. In the hours after his demise, he raged. If he had been allowed by the Three to remain on this plane of existence, he would use it to his advantage. He was strong and he was tenacious. Rhoam had always been quick to identify weak points he could use for leverage. He was skilled at taking decisive action, seeing what needed to be done and making it reality. It was a skill he was proud of. He thought it made him an effective king. But the Calamity had no weak points. It had smoke and Malice and the pent-up rage of centuries. His own rage was no match for that. It had swatted him away in death as surely as it had when it ended his life. Eventually, he had simply given up, choking on his impotence. With the Calamity swirling around his castle, the seat of his power, his home, Rhoam had withdrawn. He withdrew to Castle Town, beholding the utter destruction of the heart of his kingdom where it had taken the infected Guardians mere minutes to raze the entire town to rubble. The smell of ozone and burning flesh was not something he could perceive, now, but his sight and hearing were unaffected. He saw a single remaining Guardian as it stalked, looking for survivors, shooting its white-hot beam at the smallest hint of movement. A dog beneath a tipped table. A child whimpering under the arm of a corpse. Rain began to fall around him, not touching him, and he turned away. 

As he turned, he saw a light. It was weak, pulsing frantically, a caged little bird beating at its prison, and he drew his attention to it. To _her_. And her knight. He hadn’t known what he expected. To find them already dead, most likely, if he had paused to think of it. He had not expected to see them on horseback, pelting like shooting stars, not away from ruin but towards it. _Fools_ , he thought. They hadn’t gotten farther than the Sacred Grounds before the Guardians had forced them to retreat. Their horses had been incinerated beneath them. They were forced to flee on foot. _Fools,_ he thought again. _Can you not see that we are lost_. _It is time to surrender._ He saw her fall, in the woods, giving in to despair. From here, he saw a pain in her he had never before allowed himself to see. Perhaps he had misjudged her devotion. It was a painful thought and he pushed it away. His eyes-that-were-no-longer-eyes followed them as they ran. They must be making for Fort Hateno. They should have done that in the first place. With cool detachment, he watched as the Appointed Knight took his mortal wound. He had lasted longer than Rhoam had thought he would, but of course this was inevitable. As the knight dragged himself to his feet and the Guardian focused its eye on him, Rhoam’s ears-that-were-no-longer-ears heard the anguish in his daughter’s cry. He was blinded by the wave of radiance that pulsed over everything and he knew nothing then for some time. 

When his awareness returned, the light had focused to a single source. It was the brightness of the sun contained in a jar. He should not have been so surprised to find that until this moment he had never actually believed in this power. The light was moving toward the castle and he was snowblind in the face of the searing light. He could not see past the glare to her face, but he knew it was she. The light walked with even, steady steps, not rushing, never halting. It walked to the gates of the castle and demanded entry, and he knew that he would see this moment in his mind for the rest of his existence. He withdrew again, this time to the Plateau, drawn by the persistent hum of the Hero’s soul. There he had begun a solitary vigil, waiting. 

A century was a long time to be alone with one’s thoughts. He had replayed every moment of his life a thousand times in his memory. He had learned the fissures in his soul that had seeped pride and, yes, fear, into his relationship with his daughter. In time, he had come to see every one of his fatal errors. She had been the key, but he had been the blacksmith. It had been his duty to teach her the shape of the lock. And he had failed. It was his fault, but he could not have done otherwise. He knew this now, though he had spent a quarter of this century wallowing in guilt and shame before he realized it. He had simply not had all the relevant information. Even the best commander cannot effectively lead if he has faulty intelligence. It did not absolve him of blame. 

On the morning that the world’s destiny swung back into action, he had heard Impa calling sharply to him. Her tone was never kind. She saw his failures as clearly as he did. He had never understood the Sheikah. He had been a man of logic and action, not magic and reflection. Their esotericism made him as uncomfortable as did the power his daughter was supposed to wield. He had been relieved when the Sheikah’s focus had turned from magic to technology. The first time Impa had reached him through the veil, he had shuddered. Whether in revulsion or relief, he could not tell. In brief glimpses, he had learned from Impa enough of the shape of what had happened, and what was to come. 

He stood when he heard the rumble of the shrine doors opening. He watched the boy emerge into the light, run to the edge to survey the beautiful destruction that was what remained of Rhoam’s kingdom. The boy turned his gaze toward him and their eyes met across the distance and the century between them. Rhoam turned to sit and wait for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
